Healing
by Geraldine
Summary: Sam has a lot to deal with A sequel to Setbacks.
1. Part One

Title : Healing  
  
Author : Géraldine  
  
Email : lazy.gege@ibelgique.com  
  
Category : ESF, angst  
  
Rating : PG - 13  
  
Summary : Sam has a lot to deal with.  
  
Disclaimer : They belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, NBC, Warner Brothers, and I hope I haven't forgotten anyone. So obviously, they don't belong to me. I'm not making money for this story, I just have too much free time on my hands. So I'm begging : don't sue.  
  
Spoilers : To be safe, all four seasons  
  
Note : Sequel to Setbacks  
  
Acknowledgements : Thanks a lot to me beta reader, Emily.  
  
*****  
  
PART ONE  
  
May 2003  
  
"Are you nervous?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"Are you nervous?"  
  
"No."  
  
He wasn't nervous, exactly. Simply, it had been easier before, Sam thought. When he was seeing her regularly, it had become, not natural, but.usual. It was just something he did, like a dentist appointment, but a little less fun.  
  
It didn't feel as natural as it once had. It had been a few months since he had seen a therapist, and it felt awkward now.  
  
Not as awkward as it had been the first time, but still.  
  
Besides, he had no idea what he was supposed to say. Was he even supposed to say anything specific?  
  
She hadn't changed much since the last time he had seen her, he reflected. Of course, it had only been a few months. Six and a half month. It had just seemed longer to him, that's all.  
  
Back then, he had finally caved in to the demands of his doctors that he see someone who would help him deal with the changes he was facing - with the way his body reacted, with the treatment he had to follow, with the adjustments he had to make to his lifestyle.  
  
He had stopped seeing her shortly before the election, claiming he was on top of things and didn't need help anymore.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What are you thinking about?"  
  
"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," he said. "I mean, I've done this before, with you. And then I've done it again, with someone else, but I knew what was happening to me."  
  
"What was happening to you?"  
  
PTSD.  
  
The four letters that had made Josh's life, and his own, more.interesting, as the two of them often joked.  
  
"It's funny," he said, "I knew it was likely to happen, I knew what it would probably feel like, Josh had talked to me." He knew what it must have cost his friend, and he was grateful for what he had done. Too bad it hadn't prevented anything. "Yet, when I began to, you know." Lose it. "I'm trying to say that knowing didn't help."  
  
She smiled gently. "Did you expect it to?"  
  
"I was hoping it would, yes."  
  
Yes, he had hoped he wouldn't have to deal with it. He had hoped that being shot would be the year's only enjoyment.  
  
Fat chance.  
  
"It doesn't work that way," she said.  
  
He refrained from rolling his eyes. Well, he knew that * now *  
  
"I'm just saying," he sighed.  
  
"Can you tell me what happened to you when you got out of the hospital?"  
  
Nothing, at first. Everything was fine, the election was almost over, the President was going to win, he was better, physically, he was better psychologically. But she already knew that, she was the one he had consulted, during these first few months. He had stopped coming because everything was back to normal, or as normal as things were likely to get, and he was busy enough without regular appointments with his therapist.  
  
Things had gone on fine for a few weeks after that - between November and January. Two months of peace.  
  
Then, this feeling that he was losing his mind, bit by bit.  
  
Josh had tried to warn him, "It's when you think it's over, it's when you drop your guard and begin to relax, that it hits you." He hadn't paid any attention to his friend's warnings. He had tried to convince himself that just because Josh had been a victim of PTSD didn't mean he would too, he had tried to deny that he had a problem and didn't know how to solve it, just as Josh had told him he would.  
  
It had begun when he took his car to head back home at night - he had frozen several times, as he was going to start the engine, convinced that someone was going to come up behind him.  
  
And to think that he had told Toby, on that sailing expedition, that he had managed to convince himself that he was safe now.  
  
And to think that he had believed what he was saying.  
  
After three weeks, he took a cab each time he had to do his daily commute. At the inquiries of his friends, he answered that his car was in the shop, and no one questioned that.  
  
Eventually, though, he had to either take his car again, or let the others see that there was a problem. They were already beginning to look suspicious back then.  
  
In hindsight, Sam thought, lying to them hadn't been a smart move.  
  
Two days after he had taken his car back to work, he froze when he put his key in the lock of the car's door. He didn't know how long he had stayed like that. It was Leo who had found him. The chief of staff had apologized at great length afterwards, saying that he should have known.  
  
Leo, when he had come out of the building, had seen Sam facing away, staring at the key in his hand, had walked to him and had put a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Sam didn't remember much from that night - he had a flash of Leo above him, trying to calm him down, repeatedly telling him that he was fine, that he was safe, that it was going to be all right. He vaguely remembered the doctor, filling a syringe with a sedative and turning to face him.  
  
He didn't remember the panic attack itself, just that he had felt scared for hours, even after Josh and Toby had talked to him, had told him again that he was fine.  
  
The next morning, he had woken up to see Josh at his bedside.  
  
A very worried Josh.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sam had said immediately.  
  
"You should have told us," Josh had said. "I mean, why didn't you."  
  
Sam knew what his friend was thinking. Josh hadn't turned to anyone for help, but he hadn't known what was happening to him. Sam knew it was going to happen, he knew he could turn to the others, so why hadn't he?  
  
"I didn't know how to.I wasn't sure what was happening."  
  
Josh nodded. "I know it's frightening to feel that way - like you're going insane."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"We'll help you to get through it."  
  
"I know."  
  
They had.  
  
They had also watched his every move for weeks, until he had snapped, exasperated, that he wasn't going to jump in front of a car, so could they please move on already?  
  
Toby had smirked. "Yeah, don't hold your breath."  
  
But they had given him more space, thank God.  
  
Little by little, he had begun to have less flashbacks, the nightmares, which had come back with a vengeance, had faded away again, and he hadn't had another panic attack.  
  
He had gotten better, eventually.  
  
"So why are you here?" she asked again.  
  
"I.I stopped sleeping."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Ten days? Maybe more, I don't know."  
  
"You don't sleep at all?"  
  
"Half an hour here and there. Maybe three hours a night."  
  
He tried to keep his tone light, to hide the worry he was feeling. It didn't seem too bad now, in this office, with someone else in the room - he could almost convince himself that he was young, that he could afford to have a few sleepless nights.  
  
He knew from experience that it would become a big deal again when he would go home. Few things seemed insignificant at night, when you couldn't sleep and you were reduced to staring at the ceiling, longing for sleep.  
  
"Okay. Have you tried sleeping pills?"  
  
"A few nights ago."  
  
"It didn't work?"  
  
It had worked too well, actually. He had had a nightmare, the first one in two months, and he hadn't been able to wake up. He had found himself trapped in the same dream, all night long.  
  
He had thrown the pills in the sink the next day.  
  
"Do you have any idea why you stopped sleeping?"  
  
He shot her a look. "I was kind of hoping I'd be able to pay you to find out why."  
  
She smiled. "Fair enough."  
  
There was a silence, and he sighed. "I'm gonna have to do all the work, aren't I?"  
  
She nodded. "Afraid so," she said, in her best no-nonsense tone.  
  
"Yeah, always works like that." he griped.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Did something happen recently?"  
  
He thought about a lot of smart replies. He didn't utter the first one, because he didn't want to be the sarcastic patient who plays smart with his therapist. He knew she was really trying to help him.  
  
He just wasn't sure he was ready to go down that road.  
  
"Sam, may I ask you why you came back here? We saw each other when you were still hospitalized, and for some time after you got out of the hospital, but you told me that you didn't need help anymore, so why come back?" she asked suddenly.  
  
He smiled sheepishly. "I didn't keep seeing the other one, the one I saw for my PTSD, because he wasn't.I don't know, I didn't like him."  
  
"Why?"  
  
He rolled his eyes. Why was it important anyway? "He was good, but I had the feeling he was trying to, I don't know.I know you people hear stories like mine every day, all day long, and that's okay. But, it doesn't happen to * me * everyday, and he spent too much time telling me that my reactions were nothing out of the ordinary.They were to me. But I don't know if that makes much sense."  
  
"It does," she said.  
  
"Great," he said.  
  
"So, that brings us back to, 'why now'?"  
  
He grimaced. "I was kind of hoping you wouldn't remember."  
  
"No chance of that happening," she said.  
  
"I don't know," he said, smiling tightly.  
  
"You're lying," she said calmly.  
  
"Do you think you know me well enough to draw that kind of conclusion?" he asked.  
  
"I don't need to know you to know that you're lying. It's written all over you."  
  
He bit his lip, and got up, walking to the window. He couldn't see anything outside. It was dark, all he could see was his reflection in the window.  
  
He was tired, and it was showing.  
  
He was pale, he had dark smudges under his eyes. His hair was beginning to gray a little at the temples.  
  
He looked his age, he thought, feeling depressed at the thought. A wonder none of his friends had asked him what was wrong yet.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
Why was he stalling?  
  
She was right, he knew exactly why he wasn't sleeping.  
  
He had spent a lot of time talking to therapists since he had been shot. He could imagine the questions they would ask, and he knew how to answer them.  
  
He had considered bringing it up with his colleagues, but they were all so busy right now.  
  
So he had made an appointment with her, and now that he was here, he couldn't bring himself to talk about it.  
  
He even knew why - it would make it real, it would take his fears into the light, for a stranger to look at with him, and he wasn't sure he wanted that.  
  
Besides, maybe talking wouldn't even help.  
  
"Sam, do any of your friends know you're here?" she asked.  
  
He spent a lot of time inside his head, analyzing himself. He knew himself very well.  
  
What was he even doing here?  
  
"Sam, do your friends know where you are?"  
  
"No."  
  
And they hadn't noticed that something was wrong, yet - although Toby was two days away from dragging him to the hospital again, he could feel it.  
  
He almost smiled.  
  
He would have, if he hadn't been so tired, if anything about the situation had been even remotely amusing.  
  
"No, they don't know," he repeated.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"They'd worry."  
  
And it would make it real, too.  
  
"What happened ten days ago?"  
  
It slipped before he could stop himself. "I had a check up."  
  
"Okay."  
  
He was still staring through the window, and she finally asked, "Sam, want to come back to sit here?"  
  
He shook his head. "They thought there was something odd at the biopsy, so they called me back, they did more tests, and they decided that after all, everything was fine."  
  
And he had spent two days living in the fear that the doctor would call him and tell him that he was beginning to reject the transplant again. Wondering if the months spent swallowing pills what seemed like every hour of the day had been in vain.  
  
He turned to face her, smiling weakly. "I'm sorry, I'm just.I'm not sure how you're supposed to help."  
  
She shrugged. "You're the one who called," she pointed out.  
  
True. "That doesn't mean.it was an impulse."  
  
"A good one," she said. "Sam, you've been told, I'm sure, that at the slightest sign that something was wrong, you had to call your doctor."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Would you?"  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
Except that he wasn't so sure.  
  
It was entirely possible that he would be scared to hear what the doctor would have to tell him and he would wait.  
  
He turned to face her. She was looking at him, and he had the disturbing impression that she was reading him like an open book - printed in a very large font.  
  
He stared at her, daring her to challenge him.  
  
She took a quick note, and Sam knew that it was going to come back in a future session.  
  
"Anyway, when you have psychological difficulties, it's usually a good idea not to wait to see someone."  
  
He knew that, yes.  
  
It had been made pretty obvious to him when he had freaked in front of Leo, of all people, and spent a good hour shaking, unable to calm down.  
  
"Why did it affect you so hard that they had to redo the tests?"  
  
He shrugged, and turned his back on her again, going back to staring at the darkness outside.  
  
"I'm not going to let that get away," she said. "You may not tell me, but we'll spend half an hour silently here, and - "  
  
"Can you - ?" he said. "I'm thinking."  
  
She stopped talking and he closed his eyes briefly.  
  
"Sam?" she said, five minutes later.  
  
He put his hands in his pockets and turned to face her, not making eye contact. "I . It reminded me that chances are, someday, I'll reject the transplant." He paused and frowned a little. "No, it's not exactly that. It's.It made the possibility more.real, it made it go from theory to, to a distinct possibility. Likelihood."  
  
He groaned inwardly. What was wrong with him?  
  
She nodded thoughtfully and he snapped. "Please, could you not do that?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Nod like what I said is so, I don't know, insightful, that you have to take a moment to take it in."  
  
She looked at him calmly and he sighed. "Sorry. I had promised myself not to be confrontational, but ."  
  
She chuckled. "Don't worry about that," she said. "But back to our problem.What do you feel when you think about what might happen if you reject the transplant?"  
  
Fear.  
  
Helplessness.  
  
Fear.  
  
Some leftover anger toward the shooter.  
  
Anger toward life, fate, or whatever - he would probably be cursing God if he was a believer, but he wasn't.  
  
Anger toward himself, sometimes.  
  
Fear.  
  
Discouragement.  
  
Anger toward her, right now.  
  
Fear, mostly.  
  
She nodded. "It wouldn't be the end," she said. "You could go back to dialysis. You could have another transplant."  
  
If he had the strength to put himself through that again, which wasn't a given.  
  
"I don't understand why it keeps me from sleeping," he said suddenly. "Is it even because of that?"  
  
"We'll have to discuss it," she said, "but I think there's a good chance it's that. As for why it's keeping you awake.I can only take an educated guess."  
  
He went back to sit in front of the desk. "I'm listening."  
  
"You have a busy life, and what did you do after you had undergone the tests?"  
  
"I went back to work."  
  
"And have you slowed down for a few minutes ever since?"  
  
He thought about it.  
  
Had he?  
  
There had been a speech to write, there had been this draft of a new law to pass through Congress, there had been Donna's birthday, and this near PR- disaster.  
  
"No," he admitted.  
  
"Well, maybe it came back to you at night because it's the only time you actually stop moving long enough to take the time to deal with it," she suggested. "Although, once again, that's just a hypothesis."  
  
"Born from years of working with trauma patients," Sam said.  
  
"That doesn't make me right," she smiled. "Everyone has their way of dealing with such events. I'm taking a guess, and we'll see if I was right as we go along."  
  
He nodded. "Okay."  
  
"I'm going to give you a prescription for sleeping pills."  
  
He shook his head.  
  
No way was he taking those things again.  
  
"They're light," she said. "They'll allow you to relax a little, they won't keep you from waking up. I suppose you took strong ones, last time?"  
  
"It seemed like a good idea," he said.  
  
"It wasn't," she smiled.  
  
No kidding, he thought, remembering the incoherent nightmares that had filled his sleep.  
  
She handed him the prescription, and he reluctantly took it. "Try to sleep on your own first," she advised. "Take one if you can't."  
  
He nodded.  
  
"I'm serious," she said. "You're beginning to show signs of fatigue, I don't want you to run yourself down. The more you drag this state along with you, the longer it'll take you to recuperate afterwards."  
  
"Okay," he promised.  
  
"Will you tell your friends that you came here?"  
  
"I don't know," he lied.  
  
Except he knew.  
  
He wasn't going to.  
  
They would worry, and he didn't want them to go back to spying on him like they had in the past.  
  
"Liar," she said easily.  
  
"It's just that they're."  
  
They were nice, they were worried, they were protective, they wanted so much for him to get better, and all he wanted was some peace, some space, some privacy.  
  
"If you need some space, ask for it," she said. "Remember what I told you last time?"  
  
"That I should be an egoist?"  
  
She glared at his liberal interpretation of her words. "That your recovery had to take a priority over everything - your job, the feelings of your friends, everything. Besides, if you need some space, they'll allow it."  
  
He nodded.  
  
She rose from her seat. "Let's see each other again in two days."  
  
"Two days?"  
  
"Until we've taken care of your sleeping problems, we have to see each other more often," she said.  
  
He reluctantly agreed.  
  
"People get better, you know."  
  
He stared at her. "Do you people have a book or something?" he asked.  
  
"A book?"  
  
"That's what Stanley - he was Josh's therapist, after - "  
  
"Rosslyn, of course," she said.  
  
"Yeah, anyway, that's what he told Josh."  
  
"That's because it's true. Don't minimize the impact of what happened to you, but don't let it overwhelm you either."  
  
"Because people get better?"  
  
"They do."  
  
"Thanks," he said, shaking her hand, not sure he believed her.  
  
"You will believe it one day," she said.  
  
He hoped so.  
  
"In two days," she said, opening the door.  
  
"Okay," he said, exiting the office. 


	2. Part Two

PART TWO  
  
Sam got out of his car.  
  
"//People get better//."  
  
He was almost afraid to believe it.  
  
On the other hand, once upon a time, he wouldn't have dared to take his car and drive to an appointment with his therapist - or anywhere, really. So, he had already gotten better, he reminded himself.  
  
He entered his building, smiled to his neighbor in the elevator (to his relief, she didn't start a conversation. He wasn't in the mood for chit- chat tonight), and made his way to his apartment.  
  
Toby was sitting on the threshold, his legs outstretched in front of him, reading from a file.  
  
Sam coughed discreetly and his boss raised blurry eyes to him.  
  
"Hey," Sam said, hoping his boss would hear the implied, 'What are you doing here?'  
  
"Hey."  
  
Okay, telepathy didn't work, then. "What are you doing here?"  
  
A shrug. "What does it look like?"  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. He wasn't in the mood for a grilling by his boss, either. He could already feel the meaningful conversation Toby wanted to have, the sincere concern he would express, the assurance that Sam was safe now and could go to any of them if he ever needed to talk.  
  
He knew all that. He didn't want to hear it again tonight.  
  
Toby was staring in his direction and Sam followed his gaze - to the pharmacy bag in his hand.  
  
Great.  
  
"What's up?" Toby asked.  
  
He hesitated, torn between the desire to be left alone and the will to erase some of the concern etched on his friend's face.  
  
What decided him was the dawning realization that Toby wasn't going anywhere.  
  
He motioned for his boss to get up, opened the door and they both entered.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Half an hour later, they were watching CNN, discussing the last speech the President had given. He could have delivered it better, Toby claimed, and Sam couldn't help but agree. Their leader seemed tired.  
  
He could sympathize.  
  
"He should have insisted more, * we * should have insisted more, on the third section."  
  
"I know," Sam said. Toby was preaching to the choir, they both knew it, but his boss needed to get it out.  
  
"It made us look weak."  
  
"We'll do better next time," Sam said, waiting to see when Toby would make his move. He didn't have to wait for a long time.  
  
"What's happening to you?"  
  
Sam looked at him eloquently, and Toby dropped his gaze. His boss had tried to trick him, but then he had been expecting that.  
  
"Sam, seriously."  
  
"When did you notice?"  
  
"When you began walking around like a zombie."  
  
"So, about a week ago?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You didn't come to us," Toby said.  
  
"No, I didn't."  
  
"You promised, after last time, that you would come to us."  
  
"It's not PTSD," Sam said.  
  
"Still."  
  
"I was waiting for it to go away," Sam admitted.  
  
Not that that had ever worked in the past, of course. But there was always this hope that maybe ignoring the problem would drive it away.  
  
It hadn't worked before, but who knew if it wouldn't work this time?  
  
"Yeah, because that usually goes over so well," Toby said, his tone definitely.snarky.  
  
"I know. Toby, I know what you're thinking, and if I was in your shoes, I'd be thinking the same thing."  
  
Toby had become his confessor, Sam thought. He was the one who immediately picked up when something was wrong. He was the one Sam talked to more easily, because Toby wasn't judgmental of the people he loved, and his boss knew how to bully him into talking.  
  
CJ had become. CJ hadn't become anything, CJ had stayed the same, mothering him when need be, teasing him when he needed some cheering up, and making a point of not treating him any differently than before.  
  
The assistants had taken a while to admit that he wasn't made of glass and wouldn't shatter if they came back to making his life hell, but now they were back to their old ways, and Sam didn't know if he was glad or frightened.  
  
Josh. After their talk, their relationship had subtly changed. Josh was accepting him more as an equal, even if sometimes, he still tried to revert to their old ways. Sam tried to accept Josh as he was, not as he thought Josh should be. Josh joked with him, Josh had talked to him about his own little gun-related hell in the hope that it would help.  
  
"But you didn't come to us anyway," Toby said, dragging him back to the matter at hand.  
  
He shrugged. "We've all been busy."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"I didn't know where to start."  
  
"At the beginning," his boss said firmly. "Tell me now."  
  
It seemed so simple when Toby said that. If only it could have been that simple.  
  
"I don't sleep."  
  
"You mean. what, you don't sleep well?"  
  
"No, I don't sleep at all. Or, well, almost not at all."  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"A little more than a week."  
  
"And you were waiting for it to pass?" Toby's voice was as incredulous as Sam had ever heard it.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When did you stop waiting?"  
  
Sam smiled wickedly. "When I realized it wasn't going to go away."  
  
"And you realized it wasn't going to when - " He gestured for Sam to finish.  
  
Sam bit his lip. "When I fell asleep in the bathtub. This morning."  
  
Toby rubbed his eyes. "Marvelous." They stayed silent for a moment, then Toby asked, "Did you.?"  
  
"Yes, I was coming back from it."  
  
"The guy you saw before?"  
  
"No, the woman I saw back when I was still in the hospital."  
  
Toby looked mildly relieved, and Sam knew exactly what he was thinking. That at least, his deputy had no qualms about seeing a therapist.  
  
Which wasn't entirely true, and Sam prayed that the press would never know that he did, but at least, the last few months had ridden him of a good part of his reluctance. Besides, Josh had needed to see a therapist too, and he had gotten better for it. Eventually.  
  
"Did she give you something to sleep?" Toby asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you going to take it?"  
  
"No."  
  
Toby rolled his eyes.  
  
"I'm fine," Sam said, sounding defensive in his own ears.  
  
"You don't sleep, that's not fine."  
  
"I'll get over it."  
  
"You should have come to us."  
  
"Yes, I should have. But you know what, I didn't, and it's a bit late to take that back so." He stopped before he could turn really snappish. Too late, if Toby's face was any indication.  
  
His boss nodded, looking slightly taken aback.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound harsh. Just, you know."  
  
"Hard day," Toby completed.  
  
Sam shrugged. His definition of a bad day had dramatically changed over the last year. But no, he hadn't had a very good day.  
  
"I'll stay for the night," Toby announced.  
  
Sam was shaking his head before the older man was done talking. "No, you won't."  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Toby, I'm not five, and I don't need anyone to hold my hand so I can go to sleep."  
  
"Yet you don't sleep," Toby said.  
  
"No, and you watching me for signs of sleepiness isn't going to help one bit."  
  
His boss clearly wasn't convinced.  
  
Damn, he thought. Sam hated when Toby did that - when he insisted that he only wanted to watch over Sam, when he guilted Sam into letting him do so.  
  
He hated feeling as if he didn't have a choice.  
  
He hated not having a choice - it was either blow Toby off, at the risk of hurting him, after everything he had done, or cave in and spend the rest of the night longing for privacy, and peace.  
  
He hated this 'trapped in a corner' feeling.  
  
"Toby." he said, his tone pleading. Please, don't make me choose, he wanted to say.  
  
His boss eyed him quizzically. "You really don't want me to stay, do you?" he asked.  
  
He shook his head, not wanting to let Toby see the relief he was feeling. "Thanks for asking, and it means a lot, you know that, but I want to be alone tonight."  
  
His boss didn't answer.  
  
"Please," he added.  
  
He was busy claiming his life back, between two check ups at the hospital and two therapy sessions. He didn't get to have his word on so many issues - the fact that he had to follow a diet wasn't negotiable, the treatment wasn't negotiable, the appointments schedule was not negotiable. The therapy. well, actually, that one was negotiable, he just didn't feel like he could afford to have another nervous breakdown so soon after the first one.  
  
He needed to be able to kick people out of his home once in a while, he needed to yell at stubborn congressmen sometimes (work, the one place he was in control of most of what crossed his path. His shelter.) He needed some semblance of normalcy, and Toby sleeping on his couch wasn't normal.  
  
"Okay," his boss said. "I'll tell the others not to bug you tonight."  
  
"Do they know that I have this problem?" Sam asked.  
  
"They didn't come ask me if I knew something, if that's what you're asking."  
  
It was. It didn't mean that they hadn't noticed something amiss with him, but the rule was now, 'when Sam is acting funny, go to Toby first, if he doesn't know anything, try Josh, and if neither of these two know what's up, then ask Sam directly.'  
  
Josh didn't mind, Sam was glad that they didn't crowd him each time he sneezed, but he had no idea how Toby was taking it.  
  
"That doesn't mean they're not going to gang up on you," Toby added.  
  
Sam nodded, stifling a yawn. "Okay."  
  
"Tired?" his boss asked.  
  
"Well, yes."  
  
"Maybe you'll sleep then."  
  
He wasn't so sure. He had been tired before in the last ten days, that wasn't the problem.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"I'd better go," Toby said.  
  
"Okay."  
  
He showed Toby to the door.  
  
As he was crossing the threshold, his boss said, "It began when you had your check up then?"  
  
"You noticed," Sam said, torn between a smile and an urge to close the door now.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"They. they were wondering if there was a problem with the transplant," Sam summarized. "Turned out there wasn't."  
  
Toby nodded. "You - "  
  
"Should have said something, yeah, I know."  
  
"As long as you know." his boss said.  
  
"I do," Sam said, more firmly.  
  
"Okay."  
  
They said their good-byes, Toby left, and Sam came back in. He collapsed on the couch, watching CNN re run pieces of the President's speech. Sam fell asleep while Bartlet was talking about new funds allocated to teachers.  
  
When he woke up three hours later, the TV was still on.  
  
He stared at the screen, his eyelid heavy, cursing the nightmare that had woken him up.  
  
The pill bottle was on the table.  
  
He sighed, and dry swallowed one, then lay back on the couch, feeling too tired to make it to his room.  
  
He was just as well here, he thought, feeling himself go under again.  
  
Hoping that this time, he would sleep through the night. 


	3. Part Three

PART THREE  
  
  
  
June 2003  
  
  
  
"How do you sleep?"   
  
"Fine."   
  
"Liar."   
  
Sam sighed. Were they back at this again?   
  
"Yes, we are."   
  
"Why are you even asking?"   
  
"Because I'm your therapist, and you look very much like you did when you first came back to see me in May."   
  
It had nothing to do with last May, Sam thought.   
  
The insomnia had disappeared after a while. He had taken pills to sleep, he had talked things through to death with her, and Toby had stopped hovering after a few weeks, when Sam had stopped looking exhausted.   
  
Yet, he knew that she had a point. He looked bad - bad enough that his coworkers were looking at him worriedly. Again.   
  
"I'm tired. Lot of work," he stalled.   
  
"Then why didn't you say so right away?"   
  
He bit his lip before the 'Because' that was on them could slip away.   
  
She was there to help, he reminded himself. There was no need for him to act like a third grader.   
  
He looked at her. She stared back at him, unyielding.   
  
This session was going to be fun, he could feel it.   
  
"I'm sleeping," he said.   
  
"How many hours a night?"   
  
"Six."   
  
She went back to waiting for him to realize that resistance would lead him nowhere.   
  
"I'm sleeping," he said again, "It's just. It's possible that I'm having nightmares."   
  
She frowned a little. "Possible? You're not sure that you're having nightmares?"   
  
"I'm having nightmares," he amended. "And may I say that you sounded very much like my boss just then?"   
  
She smiled and he groaned, "Oh God."   
  
"What was that?"   
  
"Now you're going to ask me if I told him."   
  
"Well, since you mention it," she said, making a note, "Does he know about it?"   
  
"No." 'Not yet' might have been a more accurate answer, since his boss seemed to have developed an uncanny sixth sense where his deputy was concerned. "And I don't tell him each time I sneeze either."   
  
"Okay," she said, dropping it. Momentarily, he was sure. "How often do you have these nightmares?"   
  
Every night, several times a night. But the good news was, he could fall back asleep after them. In fact, sometimes, he didn't even wake up.   
  
She made a note and he said, "I know what you're going to ask."   
  
"Do you?"   
  
"You're going to ask, 'Any idea why you have these dreams?' Or maybe, 'What are they about?'"   
  
She didn't answer, and he sighed, "And now you want me to answer, of course."   
  
She nodded, smiling.   
  
"They're about the attack, obviously," he said.   
  
"Not about Rosslyn, this time?"   
  
"No, not. not this time." He had had a few Rosslyn-related nightmares in May, around the anniversary. He did every year. They usually didn't last for long, though.   
  
"Okay, so they're about the attack," she said. "Are they about the actual events, or are they variations?"   
  
"Depends."   
  
He should never have brought it up.   
  
"Tell me about them," she said.   
  
"Sometimes, I wake up in the parking lot, there are people around, and they don't hear me calling for help. Sometimes, there's nobody around. Sometimes, they're about the hospital. When I. when I rejected the transplant, I was running a fever, and I was pretty out of it. Sometimes, they're about that."   
  
"Which ones scare you the most?"   
  
The fever ones weren't fun.   
  
He didn't remember much, just that the others were with him, that he was scared of dying, and that he was feeling himself slipping away a little more every time he surfaced.   
  
He hated those ones.   
  
But the ones that scared him the most were the parking ones.   
  
"Why these ones more than the others?"   
  
"I was with strangers, I felt. alone."   
  
He shivered, and hoped she hadn't noticed.   
  
"Why do you think you're having nightmares now?"   
  
He shrugged. "Anniversary coming up," he guessed.   
  
He was beginning to wonder why he had these nightmares now. Was it because soon, it would be a year since the shooting had happened? Or was it more twisted than that, was it because he had expected to have nightmares as the anniversary came up, and that expectation had made him have them?   
  
"You were expecting them," she said, as if reading his thoughts. A scary possibility.   
  
"Yes." It didn't make it any easier, but at least he had braced himself.   
  
It wasn't the nightmares per se that bugged him. It was what he thought about when he was awake.   
  
"Sam?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"Are they debilitating?"   
  
"No."   
  
"Do they cause panic attacks that you're not telling me about?"   
  
"No."   
  
"Flashbacks?"   
  
"No."   
  
"And they're not preventing you from sleeping?"   
  
"No." He smiled. "No big deal, right?"   
  
"No, not right, but. you tend to divert the attention from your bigger problems by throwing small ones at me."   
  
He blushed a little. He knew how to maneuver her, but she was learning fast how to maneuver back.   
  
"What's really going on?"   
  
"I'm just. I've been thinking a lot."   
  
"Sam." she said.   
  
"I don't know how to. I don't know where to begin."   
  
"Grab the first thing that goes through your head," she suggested.   
  
"They never caught the guy."   
  
There had been no hesitation in his voice.   
  
That had been the first thing that had gone through his head. Or rather, that was the thing that never left it.   
  
"Okay."   
  
"He's still out there, somewhere. Or he could be dead. Or he could have been caught for something else."   
  
"And how does that make you feel?"   
  
He got up and went to the window. It was sunny outside. Warm. He was officially on lunch break, and he was beginning to get hungry.   
  
Once upon a time, he mused, the sun had made him feel safe. Back then, the summer had been 'his' time of the year, the time when he had felt optimistic, energetic, joyful. Too bad it all had come to pass, he thought bitterly. Too bad that guy had stolen that from him, too.   
  
Now, he was left wondering whether this guy would ever come back in his life, and under what circumstances.   
  
Now, even the bright sun didn't make him feel safe anymore.   
  
"Sam, how does that - "   
  
"Scared," he said.   
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because there's someone out there, there's potentially someone out there, with a gun, and who already shot me once."   
  
"Do you think he'll come after you?"   
  
"Unlikely," he admitted. "There's no reason he should. I wouldn't even be able to ID him if I was asked to, so why would he even bother?"   
  
There was bitterness and defeat in his voice, he realized belatedly, and he shot her a look to see if she had noticed.   
  
She had, naturally.   
  
She was good, that way.   
  
"I think we need to talk about that a little more."   
  
He shook his head. He wasn't ready yet. Soon, but not now.   
  
She hesitated, made a note, and asked, "Okay, we'll come back to it. What else do you feel when you think about your attacker still being free?"   
  
Guilt, he thought.   
  
"Anger," he said.   
  
"Toward whom?"   
  
The shooter, obviously.   
  
Himself - why the hell did he stop at that place, at that time? Why hadn't he brought something to eat on his boat, so he wouldn't have been so hungry? Why had he even taken the boat out that day?   
  
Whoever was in charge, Up There.   
  
Whoever had said that every citizen had the right to carry a weapon.   
  
The world at large - scary place, full of indifferent people. And why the hell hadn't anyone pushed *him* down, saved him from the bullet?   
  
He fleetingly wondered if it was part of the reason why CJ hadn't come to see him more often last summer. Did she feel guilty, because he had saved her life and she hadn't been able to do the same for him?   
  
And was it anger at his friends he was feeling right now?   
  
"Why are you angry at your friends?"   
  
A very pertinent question indeed.   
  
"It wasn't their fault," he said, as if he had to defend them.   
  
"I wasn't saying it was. I was saying that you can't control what you feel, and wondering if you wouldn't be feeling some anger directed at them."   
  
He was still staring through the window. There was a tree in the parking lot of the hospital, a huge tree, in the middle of all the cars. He wondered why it was there.   
  
"Sam?"   
  
"They weren't there," he said. "They're always so protective, so intent on preventing me from getting hurt. And they weren't there. I was alone, I needed them, and they came as soon as they knew there was a problem, I know that. But they weren't there."   
  
His voice was hoarse and he took a deep breath, hoping that he wasn't going to cry here.   
  
"What else?"   
  
"Nothing."   
  
"What else?"   
  
Her voice was soft, yet there was no refusing to answer her.   
  
"They didn't see that I had problems, with the PTSD. It's stupid, because I did everything to hide it from them, but they didn't see it anyway."   
  
"Were you trying to get back at them, by not telling them that you had a problem?"   
  
He spun on his heels to face her, horrified - at the idea that she would think he was capable of doing that. At the idea that, maybe, he was. "What? No, absolutely not! I wasn't. No!"   
  
That wasn't something he was going to explore now.   
  
"Okay," she said.   
  
"I didn't want them to be worried."   
  
She waited.   
  
"That's all there was to it."   
  
She waited.   
  
He snapped, "Fine, I'm mad at them, are you happy now?"   
  
"Why are you mad? Aside from the fact that they weren't there during the shooting?"   
  
He breathed deeply, and began to pace the office.   
  
"I. I want to feel angry. Not necessarily at them, but damn it, I'm entitled to a little anger here."   
  
"So what?"   
  
Another good question. Why was it such a big deal to him? Anger was a natural reaction after this kind of experience, he knew that perfectly well   
  
"So, I don't know, they're always expecting me to be nice, soft spoken. Forgiving. I can't, not now. I mean, I'm mad at them, but I'm not. I don't hold it against them. I hold it against the shooter."   
  
"And you think that they don't expect you to be angry at that man?"   
  
"I don't know. I think it would disturb them."   
  
"Why?"  
  
"They see me as someone ." he trailed off.   
  
"Nice," she completed.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"I have two questions."   
  
He sat back in front of her desk. "Shoot." She looked at him and he grimaced. "No bad pun intended."   
  
"Why do you think they see you like that? And, do you see yourself the same way?"   
  
His eyes went from her face to the wall behind her.   
  
Did he see himself as a nice person?   
  
No, not so much. He lost control sometimes. Sometimes, he would get angry at someone, and before he would knew it, his fist would be raised - or would have collided with something. Or someone. How many of the shouting matches he had with Lisa had ended with him throwing his beer bottle, or a book, or whatever was near him, against a wall?   
  
He had fought Billy so many times, in high school.   
  
And Kevin. He still shuddered when he thought about that night.   
  
How close he had been to beating his former friend up. How close he had been to smashing his head against the sidewalk, until that anger that was boiling inside him had finally gone away.   
  
His friends would probably have been horrified if they had known that.   
  
God knew he was.   
  
He hid that side of himself from the others. He kept his temper in check, he kept his feelings tightly under reins. He tried to project an image of calm efficiency, of professionalism, and it worked most of the time.   
  
"Sam?"   
  
"I think they don't realize at all how easily I can get mad," he said.   
  
"You've never talked to them about that, of course."   
  
"No."   
  
"Do you think they'd react badly?"   
  
"I don't know."   
  
"Do you think they'd stop being your friends?"   
  
"No."   
  
"That they would judge you?"   
  
"Not. not overtly."   
  
"But you're scared of what they might think?"   
  
"Wouldn't you be?" he shot back. "I mean, if I talked to them, if they learned how quick I am to get mad, or how easily I'm."   
  
He stopped, unwilling to go on.   
  
She stared at him. "You're what?"   
  
"Never mind."   
  
"You're what?"   
  
"Nothing!"   
  
"You're what?"   
  
He shrugged. "Well, let's say it then. Back in the hospital, I was always so whiny, so despondent, so. " Pathetic, he thought, but didn't want to say it. "I was busy waiting for someone to die, and yes, I know that accidents happen, but I think I'm entitled to feel a little bad about benefiting from someone else's death. She was twenty, for crying out loud."   
  
He saw she was about to say something, and he didn't know if he could stand another 'It wasn't your fault' speech so he went on, his voice higher. "Even now, I'm scared all the time - that I'm going to die, that I'm going to hurt, that someone's going to attack me, that I might lose control, that they might see me as I am."   
  
"What are you?"   
  
"A coward," he spat.   
  
She leaned back in her chair, and he swallowed nervously. He knew that look on her face. She had sensed that there was something else.   
  
"Why?" she asked. "Aside from all the reasons you've listed, why do you see yourself that way?"   
  
He stared at his shoes.   
  
"Why?"   
  
"I didn't even try to look at the guy. I didn't even try to fight."   
  
"It was the smart thing to do."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"What do you think he would have done if you had fought him?"   
  
"I don't know. Kill me, I guess."   
  
"Did you want to die?"   
  
"No!"   
  
"So what?" she asked.  
  
"He shot anyway."   
  
Not fighting hadn't helped, the guy had shot him, for nothing, and now he was free, whereas if Sam had tried to do something, anything .   
  
"You had no way of knowing he would shoot," she said logically. As if it had ever had anything to do with logic, Sam thought. "From all you knew, he was going to take your car and drive away."   
  
"And leave, free to attack other people."   
  
There was a silence. "So that's why," she said softly.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"You're scared that he went on attacking people, that he killed someone."   
  
". Because I didn't turn to see him."   
  
"He would have killed you," she said.  
  
"You can't be sure," he pointed out.   
  
She rolled her eyes. "And you can't be sure that he wasn't killed himself."   
  
"That's the whole point," he said. "I'll never know."   
  
"No, you won't."   
  
"So what?"   
  
"So you begin to deal with it."   
  
"Sounds like fun," he said dryly.   
  
"You talk to your friends."   
  
"No."   
  
No, he wasn't going to tell them.   
  
And what would he say anyway? 'Oh, by the way, I'm a whiny, pathetic little coward, I bet you weren't expecting that one, now were you?'   
  
"Sam, I really think their answer would surprise you," she insisted.   
  
"Why would I talk to them?"   
  
"Because you're not a coward."   
  
"Right."   
  
"And I'll never be able to convince you of that, but your friends might. And if they react the way I think they will, then maybe you'll be able to start dealing with the fact that you're not a coward. That you're just a man who survived a horrible situation. That you did what you had to do in order to survive."   
  
"I didn't fight," he said again.   
  
"He would have killed you."   
  
"He shot anyway."   
  
"You're alive."   
  
He nodded slowly. "Yeah."   
  
She nodded back. "I don't have any orders to give you, obviously, but I think it would be a good idea to talk to them."   
  
"I don't know."   
  
"Will you at least think about it?"   
  
He nodded.   
  
"Good. We're done for today."   
  
He checked his watch.   
  
"Yeah, I'll. I should go back to work."   
  
She nodded, he rose to his feet and they shook hands, as they always did.   
  
"Think about it," she repeated as he went away.   
  
As if he had any choice, he thought.   
  
As if he would be able to stop thinking about it. 


	4. Part Four

PART FOUR  
  
One week later  
  
Sam's place  
  
"Do you think I'm completely stupid?" Sam asked.  
  
CJ looked at him, surprised.  
  
Sam wasn't completely oblivious, contrary to what his colleagues seemed to think.  
  
Besides, there was no need to be particularly astute to notice that the pretext his friends had found to gather in his apartment was. contrived, to say the least.  
  
A 'no special occasion' party?  
  
He smiled a little. He had gone see his therapist earlier in the day, coming back exhausted - the nightmares were becoming more frequent as the date of the anniversary approached. He hoped they would decrease once it was over, but for now, he just wanted to sleep a few hours straight.  
  
He was distracted enough that he hadn't noticed anything strange - like the cars of his coworkers parked in the street. When he had opened the door to his place, a chorus of "Surprise" had greeted him and he had jumped backward, his heart missing a few beats, then beginning to pump faster, and faster.  
  
"You okay Spanky?" CJ had asked, laughing.  
  
He had put a hand to his heart, trying to catch his breath. "Are you guys trying to give me a heart attack?"  
  
Josh had approached him, sheepish. "Sorry, we just wanted to surprise you."  
  
"Well, it worked!" It was a testament of how tired he was that it took him a few minutes to recover from the shock.  
  
Josh had looked concerned. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah, you just, well, surprised me."  
  
Donna had come to them, smiling, and had hugged him. "That was the point," she had said brightly. "You're okay, right?"  
  
"Yes, but what exactly are we celebrating?"  
  
She had smiled. "Nothing. That's the point."  
  
He had raised an eyebrow, his suspicions forming. There wasn't a big crowd. The senior staff, the assistants, and a few lawyers from the Counsel's Office. No one who would make Sam uncomfortable. No one who would look at him pityingly. His friends were worried, Sam concluded. And they had decided to reaffirm that they were here. However, the pretext they had found to do so was, well.suspicious. "Nothing?" he repeated. "You're gonna have to walk me through that one."  
  
"See," Donna had explained, "We have three sad anniversaries in May and June, and nothing to celebrate. No birthday, no wedding, nothing."  
  
"And so, you decided to celebrate the nothingness." he gestured for her to continue.  
  
". To cheer us up," she had finished brightly. "And, well, mostly to cheer * you * up, cause you've been. blue."  
  
"I've been blue?" Sam had asked, turning to CJ.  
  
"You have," she had said, nodding seriously.  
  
"Oh."  
  
"So, anyway, let's party," Donna had said, dragging the group to the center of the room.  
  
"That's going to take some getting used to," Sam had said, to no one in particular.  
  
"You're telling me," Toby had answered, doing his best to look unhappy. Sam would have bet that he had something to do with this, though.  
  
No, he wasn't as unobservant as people seemed to think.  
  
He had noticed how everyone had tried to cheer him up, during the first hour of the party.  
  
Then, how everyone tried to force-feed him during the second hour.  
  
Then, how everyone had suddenly remembered that they had things to do, places to go to, people to talk to, phone calls to make and so on.  
  
Then, how CJ had hung back, saying that there were dishes to do and that since they had invited themselves, Sam shouldn't be the one cleaning up. Josh had winked at her on his way out, so obviously that Sam had half expected his friend to make a thumbs up gesture.  
  
Toby had cringed and dragged Josh out. Sam was sure that his boss had smacked him on the head as soon as the door had closed behind them. He could almost hear his friend's indignant "Hey!"  
  
Four hours after he had come back from his appointment, he and CJ were alone in the kitchen, where she had ordered him to sit and watch as she washed the few dishes that needed to be done.  
  
Hence his question.  
  
"CJ?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Do you think I'm completely stupid?"  
  
She turned to look at him, and he stared back at her, his face carefully neutral.  
  
"No," she said.  
  
"Good. What do you want to ask?"  
  
Not that he didn't have a pretty good idea of what was on her mind, but he might as well give her an opening. He was in a generous mood, today.  
  
She put down the glass she was rinsing and motioned for him to go back to the living room with her.  
  
Once they were settled on the couch, she said, "Toby tried to ask you how you were a few times."  
  
"Yes, and he was very subtle, and even devious, in his questions," Sam answered, nodding thoughtfully.  
  
"Then, Josh tried too."  
  
"And he was. less subtle."  
  
"No kidding," she laughed.  
  
"So now, they've asked you to third degree me?"  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"It was your turn," he added, smiling teasingly.  
  
"Yes," she answered, smiling too.  
  
"I'm - "  
  
"Spanky, so help me God, if you say that you're fine."  
  
He stopped and amended, "I will be."  
  
"When?"  
  
"When that fucking anniversary is behind me," he said sweetly, smiling at her.  
  
She hadn't expected that straightforward an answer, he could tell. "Okay."  
  
"Look, CJ, I'm seeing my therapist, I'm sleeping a few hours a night, it'll be over eventually."  
  
"And the reason you don't want us involved is." she asked.  
  
He shrugged, remembering his conversation with his therapist.  
  
CJ wasn't going to take a shrug for an answer, though.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
He grimaced. "Shit, do you have to * sound * like my therapist?"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
He shook his head. "Never mind. Look, I know you're trying to help, but really, I will be fine."  
  
He began to get up to go back to the kitchen and CJ said, "I'm sorry we weren't there."  
  
He stopped cold.  
  
How had she guessed?  
  
* Had * she guessed?  
  
"What?" he answered carefully.  
  
"I'm sorry we weren't with you. Do you have any idea how bad we all feel about that?"  
  
"You do?" he asked, feeling stupidly relieved.  
  
"Josh claims that at least, you were with him at Rosslyn."  
  
"I didn't find him," Sam pointed out.  
  
"You were with him in the ambulance, in the ER, and when he woke up, the second time."  
  
"But - "  
  
"Toby claims he should have refused to let you take a day off."  
  
"Of all the ridiculous things," Sam groaned.  
  
"And I." She bit her lip. "I should have been there, at the hospital."  
  
"You were," he said.  
  
"Not as much as. Not as much as you would have been for me."  
  
He grimaced. There it was, the nice guy thing again.  
  
"You don't know that," he snapped.  
  
He was feeling incredibly tired all of a sudden.  
  
"Yes I do."  
  
"No, you really don't," he persisted.  
  
"Sam - "  
  
"What do you want from me?" he snapped. "Do you want to hear that I'm fine? I am. Do you want to hear that I sleep? I do. Do you want to hear that I'm not going to have another breakdown? I pray not."  
  
"We don't want you to reassure us," CJ said, "We want you to * be * okay."  
  
"How many times will I have to tell you guys that I am?"  
  
"Until we're convinced," CJ said, firmly. "Until we don't feel like you tell us what we want to hear. Until you don't look so, I don't know."  
  
She trailed off and he said, "I can't really help how I feel."  
  
"I'm not saying you can. I'm saying, you don't have to keep that to yourself. I'm saying, when we ask you how you feel, you can tell us. Your therapist isn't the only trustworthy person on the face of the Earth, you know."  
  
He nodded, and sat back on the couch. She put a hand on his shoulder. "How do you feel?"  
  
"I don't know. Mad, scared,. wishing it hadn't happen."  
  
"Why don't you talk to us?"  
  
"Because, I'm not sure I want you guys to see me that way. I mean, I was pathetic enough in the hospital, why should I - " He stopped and she frowned. Oops, he thought. He must have been more tired than he had realized, to let that slip.  
  
"Sam, you weren't pathetic," CJ said calmly. "You were sick. And trying very hard to put up a good face."  
  
And failing miserably, he thought. He wasn't going to tell her that, though.  
  
"Sam, do you really think."  
  
"Why not?" he asked nervously. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm just another crime statistic, you know. Like they entered my name in a data bank, category, car jacking and attempted murder, or whatever."  
  
"It's not that way."  
  
"I know that," he snapped. "I'm not completely stupid. I'm just not reasoning too logically sometimes, and since my therapist assures me that it'll get better with time, you know."  
  
She didn't answer, she was looking at him intensely, and he found himself adding, "It's the powerlessness I hate. It's knowing that he'll never be caught, it's knowing that I didn't do anything, it's knowing that I just shook like a leaf all the time, and that I didn't even dare to turn around and look at him."  
  
There it was, in the open.  
  
He half expected her to laugh, or to look disappointed. It wasn't so. She was looking at him, there was no trace of judgement in her eyes, no pity either, so he went on, because sooner or later, they would find out. "It's knowing that I'm, you know."  
  
She looked in askance, looking very much like she didn't know.  
  
"A victim," he spat.  
  
"You're not."  
  
"Yes I am."  
  
"You survived, Sam. You had to fight, you had to fight hard, and you made it."  
  
He sighed and leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder about that."  
  
"I know. And that's bullshit, what you said. You're not a victim."  
  
"What am I?"  
  
"The man who saved my life in Rosslyn."  
  
His eyes shot open. "I thought we weren't talking about that," he said.  
  
In fact, he didn't want to talk about that. He had only done what anyone would have done under the same circumstances.  
  
"We should talk about it," CJ said firmly. "I'd be dead if it hadn't been for you, you pushed me down to safety when I didn't even know what was happening, you held it together when your best friend was in surgery, you. gave me back my necklace."  
  
"It has nothing to do with - "  
  
"It has to do with who you are. You do what you have to do and you go on."  
  
She was so intent on convincing him.  
  
He so desperately needed to be convinced.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"I do. Sam, I should have told you before. I would have if I had known what was going on in that twisted, convoluted, complicated brain of yours."  
  
He felt his eyes begin to burn and he looked away.  
  
'Shit, not now,' he thought.  
  
CJ didn't seem to mind. She hugged him, and he whispered, "I was terrified, and. CJ, I'm not. "  
  
"Being terrified doesn't make you weak," she said.  
  
"Okay."  
  
His quick acceptance didn't seem to impress her.  
  
"I mean it," she said  
  
He swallowed. "I know."  
  
It didn't mean he had to actually believe it.  
  
She let go of him. "You're someone great. I don't know what exactly convinced you otherwise, but we're going to have a couple of conversations about that, and I'll make you see the light."  
  
He chuckled a little, relieved that she was trying to ease the tension a little.  
  
"You'll love yourself, Spanky," she added.  
  
"Josh loves himself," he offered.  
  
She paused at that. "Okay, you won't love yourself too much."  
  
"Yeah," he chuckled, looking at his shoes.  
  
"Just enough to realize that you're strong, that you deserve what's best, and that thankfully, you already have that - friends, job."  
  
"Health," he added.  
  
She smacked his head. "Don't push your luck."  
  
"Ouch," he protested.  
  
"Let's go do the dishes."  
  
"I have a question about that," Sam said.  
  
"About the dishes."  
  
"Yes."  
  
She shook her head, amused. "Okay, ask your dishes question."  
  
"Not that I don't appreciate your staying to help me, but it was a party that you guys threw, so how come I'm left with * any * dishes?"  
  
She frowned. "Okay, next time we throw a cheer up party - because, believe me, it's soon going to be a tradition - we'll invite everyone in the West Wing instead of fifteen people and you'll see what a lot of dishes are."  
  
"Payback is a bitch," Sam mused.  
  
"Shut up," she said.  
  
He smiled, and followed her to the kitchen.  
  
"How did you guess that I was going to grill you?" she asked, handing him the wet dishes so he could dry them off.  
  
"A 'nothing special party'?"  
  
"Yes, but we were in a hurry."  
  
"It was Josh's idea, wasn't it?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," she admitted.  
  
"You allowed Josh to make that kind of decision."  
  
"He told us at the last minute. We couldn't find a better reason."  
  
He nodded. "Okay then."  
  
"We tried," she said defensively.  
  
"I'm sure you did."  
  
"Know what? Next time, you'll pick a theme."  
  
He looked at her. "So, not only do I have to do the dishes, but I have to plan the party myself?"  
  
"Shut up," she said.  
  
He laughed a little. "What did Toby say when he learned about. the theme."  
  
"That Josh was an idiot, that we were all idiots, that it was a wonder we had elected a President twice, and that since you were an idiot too, you wouldn't suspect anything."  
  
He straightened up. "So, Toby called me an idiot."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That's."  
  
"Not unusual?" she guessed.  
  
"Well, no it's not, but still."  
  
"I know," she said. "Believe me, I know."  
  
"I'll have to get back at him."  
  
"We all will," CJ said. "He called us all idiots."  
  
"Right."  
  
They began to plan their revenge, and when she left, an hour later, Sam realized that for a few minutes, he had forgotten everything about his sleepless nights.  
  
* * * * *  
  
One hour later, he was lying in bed, thinking about his day.  
  
Maybe his therapist had been right after all.  
  
He had talked to CJ, she hadn't run away, she hadn't mocked him. She had almost managed to convince him.  
  
He knew it wouldn't last long, he knew he'd doubt again tomorrow, but for now, it was enough.  
  
Besides, his friends would be there tomorrow, and they would try to convince him again that he didn't have anything to be ashamed of.  
  
It would take time, he didn't doubt that, but he had time.  
  
And hope, he added inwardly. Let's not forget hope.  
  
And let's not forget that people get better - it was a lesson he kept having to learn over and over again, but maybe one day, he would actually believe it.  
  
In the meantime, he thought as he drifted off, in the meantime he had people who knew that and would keep reminding him.  
  
He trusted them to do that.  
  
And with that thought, Sam fell asleep, smiling softly.  
  
END  
  
Feed back appreciated at lazy.gege@ibelgique.com 


End file.
